


Rêverie

by naturalhazard



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs mention, M/M, Romance, Unrequited Love (?), Visions, What if?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturalhazard/pseuds/naturalhazard
Summary: He was riding his death scythe, spinning in the air and feeling the wind moving his flicks, a couple of jumps was all it took as the souls he reaped waved their last unwanted goodbye to this mad, cruel and evil world. As he gave a quick look to his expensive wristwatch, he looked at the window of the office, it was raining, feeling the drops of the cold water caressing his face, he was playing with his knives. And then he was talking to that girl as she smiled at him, eager to listen to his puns, a skilled play of words as refined as the art and craft of court was and the redhead senior was painting those nails with the same old tone of red, musing in delight of a warmed heart, with the joy of real love. From afar, he could hear the grumbling of his older peers and the murmurs of the younger. He closed his suitcase, ready to leave for the latest errand. The young housewives walked all their way to the lake to wash their drapes. Waiting quietly was all he could do. The flourishing woods lost their sparkle.





	Rêverie

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRjllL-MP0U

The neverending celebration of immortality.

The feast of the young gods.

Always moving in the same rhythm.

Always dancing to the same music.

The loud cheering of the crowd.

The roar of intoxicated choirs.

The touch of fingers of a random companion on his shoulders.

The smell of unnamed smokes teasing his nose.

The taste of alcohol resting on his tongue.

The view, the blurred vision of those of his own kind.

The sound and the words of obscene songs invoked by that same circle are the last things he recalls.

  
_He was riding his death scythe, spinning in the air and feeling the wind moving his flicks, a couple of jumps was all it took as the souls he reaped waved their last unwanted goodbye to this mad, cruel and evil world. As he gave a quick look to his expensive wristwatch, he looked at the window of the office, it was raining, feeling the drops of the cold water caressing his face, he was playing with his knives. And then he was talking to that girl as she smiled at him, eager to listen to his puns, a skilled play of words as refined as the art and craft of court was and the redhead senior was painting those nails with the same old tone of red, musing in delight of a warmed heart, with the joy of real love. From afar, he could hear the grumbling of his older peers and the murmurs of the younger. He closed his suitcase, ready to leave for the latest errand. The young housewives walked all their way to the lake to wash their drapes. Waiting quietly was all he could do. The flourishing woods lost their sparkle._  


Day by day. Night and night. Night and day. Day and night. The days of death and the nights of life.

The living dead and the deadly alive.

Despair, sadness, bitterness, worthlessness, hate, unhappiness, pain, rejection, repulsion, anxiety, fear, terror, obsession, boredom, dullness, cheerfulness, fun, mirth, affection, love, happiness.

Emotions to let go.

Emotions to get rid of.

Emotions to let loose.

And he could pick up some.

Of all the time he had ahead of him, he could try to give it a sense.

Looking at the falling sun, he heard _his_ voice.

The day of the dead. The dying day.

Those piercing eyes looking at him.

His undeath being ruled.

The sensation of those feelings commanding his own actions, dictating the nature of his own very being, questioning his own eternity.

His lips spoke incomprehensible words. They moved painfully slowly.

He was cold like the winter night.

He was pale like the moon.

_Lonely, detached, isolated._

The fog surrounding him was wrapping him, too.

He wished to pick up some feelings for him, too.

He wished — although with a certain dose of uncharacteristic naivety — to gift him with joy, happiness, and mirth.

He wished to dissolve that fog with the same sensations he was feeling.

He wished to share those emotions with him.

He wished to make that perpetual frown vanish.

The birth of the night, the death of the life.

Birth and death, night and life.

The eternal flow of immortality, the usual circle of mortality.

He didn’t want to let him go.

He got closer to his sturdy figure. He approached his emotionless mask.

A sudden chill of dizziness hit his head and his own senses, setting him far from his sight.

He was wrong.

He made a mistake.

He picked up the emotions he wanted to let go.


End file.
